


In Good Hands

by penumbra



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flirting, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/pseuds/penumbra
Summary: John gives Sherlock a hand.





	In Good Hands

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Mm?”

 

Sherlock huffs. Rounds on John, stepping off the bottom of the stairs to invade his space.

 

John falters, but only for a second. Stands his ground and squares his jaw against the heat rising in his cheeks. “What?”

 

Sherlock squints. Tilts his chin. “Where _are_ you?”

 

John purses his lips. On the verge of asking what in the world Sherlock is talking about when Sherlock prods his forehead with a lackadaisical pointer finger.

 

“Here. You’re obviously more interested what’s going on between your ears than what I have to say about--”

 

John catches Sherlock’s wrist before Sherlock can poke him again. He’s not about to admit he was busy playing Sherlock eating their shared dessert in the most ridiculous--and unbearably arousing--way possible on a continuous loop. Really. Who uses a spoon that way? Turning it upside down in his mouth. Dragging it slowly alongside his tongue...

 

“Sherlock,” John warns.

 

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

 

A beat.

 

And Sherlock flicks his wrist. An attempt to break free, but John sees it coming. He doesn’t give Sherlock an inch, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth a bit dangerous, a bit...flirty. Still, they tussle. John struggles to maintain his advantage while Sherlock endeavors to out maneuver him. Toing and froing, back and forth. Panting and--

 

They’re suddenly both very aware of how close they’re standing. How Sherlock’s pulse is racing. How John’s hand is trembling.

 

John can feel Sherlock clench and unclench his fist, his tendons shifting in John’s grip.

 

Sherlock blinks. Takes a steadying breath.

 

John can sense Sherlock’s intent to disengage before he can take a step back. He tightens his hold. Just a bit. Almost imperceptible. But not imperceptible to Sherlock Holmes.

 

“John, I...I think…” Sherlock’s voice drifts off, unsure.

 

In this moment, John knows a single word--a single gesture--could disrupt the balance. So he chooses carefully, hoping beyond hope his next move will tip the scales in his favor. Maintaining eye contact, he readjusts his grip on Sherlock’s wrist. The pads of his fingers caressing Sherlock’s flexor tendons, mimicking the way Sherlock plays his violin. And just as Sherlock coaxes a tune from his Stradivarius, John’s touch causes Sherlock’s eyes to flutter shut.

 

It’s the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.

 

And the walls come tumbling down.

 

John uses his free hand to unbutton Sherlock’s coat.

 

Sherlock audibly gasps.

 

John unbuttons Sherlock’s jacket. He watches Sherlock’s chest heave, completely entranced by the lithe rise and fall, rise and fall. John gulps, eyes darting to Sherlock’s face to gauge his reaction.

 

Sherlock’s lips are parted, his face aflame. His eyes are moving rapidly behind his eyelids, barely shut, and he looks as if he’s surrendering himself over to John when he tilts his head back to loll on his shoulders. Completely undone, exposed. This ineffable display of trust spurs John to unknot Sherlock’s scarf, parting it like a curtain to reveal the pale column of his throat. His prominent collar bones. His suprasternal notch beginning to dew with sweat.

 

“John,” Sherlock pleas.

 

A wave of desire washes over John at the sound of his name. Spoken _that_ way. In _that_ voice.

 

He steers Sherlock against the wall. Sherlock slumps, bracing his shoulders for support. His coat frames his eager body, betraying its desire for John’s perusal. His nipples are peaked, delicious little nubs clearly evident beneath the silk of his straining shirt. A visible bulge in his bespoke trousers. His eyes, finally deigning to open, are heavy lidded and dark. He observes John take him in and John, for once, doesn’t bother disguising his appreciation, but allows it to be seen for what it is. Hot and heavy and Sherlock cants his hips at the naked want on display.

 

John holds him tight. Traces his thumbs against his hip bones. Feels Sherlock undulate beneath his reverent touch. And watching Sherlock fuck the air between them at the mere look on John’s face--while undeniably Sherlock in all its vanity--is stupidly sexy.

 

“God, yes.” John is lightheaded. It’s like an out of body experience and he’s dizzy with it. Inspiring Sherlock to maintain his rhythm with helpful little tugs on his belt loops.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock groans, and he wonders at the sound of his own voice. Thick and potent and altogether new. “Touch me. _For God’s sake, touch me_.” Which sounds a bit more familiar.

 

John steadies himself.

 

And Sherlock is already palming his erection. Hisses his pleasure before John shoos him away.

 

Impatient git.

 

Sherlock raises his hands in the air coyly. Bucks his hips--hard--like he’s making a point, in spite of the debauched little whine he can’t curtail. “ _Hhhaa_ ,” he breathes. “ _Hhhurry up_.”

 

John scoffs. Licks his palm and immediately dives into Sherlock’s trousers, foreplay be damned.

 

Sherlock arcs into him. Slumps further down the wall, arms akimbo.

 

John grapples with his weight. Pins Sherlock’s wrists over his head. “What do you think?” John asks with feigned nonchalance, once he’s sure neither of them are about to fall on their asses.

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply. A twist, a tug, and he chokes on a snarky retort. Goes with, “I think…” Gasp. “...I’m in good hands.”

 

“Just good?”

 

 _“Very good_.”

 

John finally-- _finally_ \--commits, hard and fast and a bit dirty. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Sherlock trembles with it, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He wants. _God_ , does he want. And if Johns lifeline were branded on his tumescent flesh forever and always he’d be just fine with that.

 

The tips of John’s fingers curl, cupping Sherlock tenderly. His baritone “ _Ohhhhh...”_ morphs into a pliant cry. It’s shaky, like his knees, like his heart, a yearning so big he can scarcely draw breath. John’s breath. Against his parted lips. And Sherlock mouths needily at John’s exhalations, drawing him in and in and further in.

 

“John,” he manages. “ _John_.”

 

Sherlock can feel the tremor in John’s hand. His cock answers in kind, twitching sympathetically.

 

“Jesus,” John whispers. Like a revelation.

 

And _oh_.

 

Sherlock’s mouth is abruptly dry. Parched. His tongue perches on the edge of his teeth, eager to taste what’s not there, but craving all the same.

 

John presses closer. His denim clad thigh wedging itself between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock surrenders a little more of his weight to John’s care, adding delicious pressure _just there_. John’s hand is sandwiched between Sherlock’s erection and his pelvis. John rolls his hips, an involuntary jerk, and a desperate “Oh, God…” A gush of precome oozes down the head of Sherlock’s cock, over John’s attentive fingers.

 

Another thrust. And another, with purpose. Sherlock’s head thuds against the wall, allowing his body to chase his desire in time with John’s ministrations, in sync with John’s hips, sinking lower and lower still. His center of gravity in John’s perfectly imperfect grip. His heels digging into the floor and sliding further and further apart with their momentum. The only thing keeping Sherlock from crashing to his knees is John’s hold on his wrists. His hold on his cock.

 

John noses at the length of Sherlock’s throat. His tongue inquisitive against his skin, laving his pulse point like he wants to eat him whole.

 

Sherlock wants him to. Oh, does he want him to. “Please,” he begs and even though he doesn’t explain, he’s sure John knows what he means because John’s teeth worry and nip, sharp and deliberate. “Yes…”

 

Sherlock’s buttons catch on the threads of John’s jumper. Rucking up against his quivering stomach. The sounds they’re making have amplified tenfold, from hushed adulations to monosyllabic invective and sobbing _ah_ , _ah_ , _ah_ s. Fragile hiccups at the start. Vulnerable and tentative, but growing in volume and pitch. Harmonizing in a way that fuels their lust. Sherlock’s voice reverberating on John’s tongue. The heel of John’s hand slick with Sherlock’s precome.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John worships in his ear.

 

Sherlock tilts his head to one side, languid, cataloging everything and wrecked beyond belief. Watches his body quaver and move of its own accord, unashamed in its pursuit of John and John and _more John_. Sherlock’s eyes find his, then. Black as night and shining like the stars themselves are nestled within. A whole galaxy of supernovas and dark matter. Sherlock lets him see, then. Everything. And he wonders what his eyes hold, knowing good and well the depth of loyalty and love pouring from his soul is brimming there, ready to spill over.

 

John’s expression is a marvel. So soft, so in awe.

 

They both groan in unison and they’re kissing. Kissing and kissing, their mounting cries muffled for the briefest of moments before their burning lungs force their mouths to part with a wet pop.

 

Sighing, trading each other’s names like a cipher.

 

John brushes a finger against the cleft of Sherlock’s ass. He jolts, his muscles seizing before he pumps his release into John’s hand.

 

One. Two. Three times. He feels like he’s wrung dry, turned inside out with the intensity.

 

Sherlock slumps to the floor and John follows, cushioning his fall.

 

John unzips his fly. He brings himself to completion with the same hand that conducted Sherlock’s climax.

 

The both of them are fighting for breath like they’ve been on a chase across London’s rooftops.

 

It’s glorious.

 

Sherlock watches John wrangle his hand from his trousers, soiled and glistening in the dim light of the hallway. He catches John’s wrist before John can wipe the evidence off on his jeans. He kisses John’s knuckles. Tongues at the delicate webbing between his fingers. Tastes the both of them together. Inhales their mingled scent.

 

“Yeah,” John murmurs. “I think so, too.”


End file.
